Two-Part Inventions (4 page)

She wasn't the only musician who went stiff with panic on approaching the stage. For some, it lasted only the first few minutes, then they became absorbed by the music, they felt freed, and the panic slunk away like a thief deterred by bright lights in the house. For others, it dogged them the whole time, invaded, occupied, kept them at gunpoint. Each performance was an agony. Some, driven by ambition and desire, persisted, learned ways of routing fear, or at least accommodating it, bargaining, maybe with the help of drugs. Others cared less for the spotlight; they contented themselves with teaching or coaching, accompanying, glad to live their lives in music, wanting the music more than they needed the fame. And some gave up. Suzanne, his Suzanne, was a conundrum. Her need for glory—that was what she called it, to him, privately—was immense, torturing. It had been since early childhood. But she couldn't rout the fear. And then there was her illness, the weakness and lassitude. Cause, or effect, or neither, just a stroke of bad luck? That interfered with her playing, too. She tired easily; she wasn't always at her best.

Still, he couldn't bear the thought that Suzanne should be
one of those who give up. If he'd been blessed with her talent, he would never have given up. He hadn't minded so much, back in high school, when he understood that his talent was of the middling variety. He didn't lust for fame but for action, movement, power. He could find other ways. He would find a way to do it for Suzanne, get her what she craved. He would bring up his idea later, at dinner.

He stayed in the kitchen, leafing through magazines. The music stopped; the irksome sound of inadequate fingers wrestling with Beethoven's outlandish demands was replaced by Suzanne's low voice. He couldn't hear her words; no doubt she was gently making suggestions—she was always a gentle, patient teacher—explaining the trajectory of the notes, what they asked of the pianist they were entrusted to. For Suzanne saw her playing that way, as a composer's dream entrusted to her, willing her to honor that trust. Then the piano sounded again, Suzanne this time—a different universe of sound. Liquid sound coalescing into phrases, skimming off her fingers, telling a story no words could convey, the language of the inner ear, the contours of emotion. Could that woman even appreciate what she was hearing? When the music stopped he heard murmured voices, and very soon the front door opened and closed. A moment later he heard the car engine start up. Suzanne came into the kitchen.

“You're home early. I didn't expect you, or I would have scheduled the lesson for earlier.”

“It was such a beautiful afternoon, I just felt like getting out. And I wanted to see how you were doing. Better?”

She nodded. “Fine.”

“Who was that just now?”

“This was the first time she came. She's Lorna Fox's mother, you know, the girl who just graduated from Curtis and came to New York? She hasn't played in years and wants to take lessons again. So I told her to let me hear her.”

“You're not going to take her on, are you? I mean . . .”

“I don't know. I said I'd let her know. It's money, isn't it?”

“We're not that desperate. You don't need to teach people like that. It's a waste.”

She smiled wryly and leaned over to take a swig of his beer. The V-neck sweater pulled away from her skin and he noticed the curve of her breasts. Later, if she was not tired, he would put his hand there. She often said she was tired, but she was not hard to persuade. She was so porous, all the feelings close to the surface. “Let me twist your arm,” he'd say sometimes, touching her thigh or shoulder. And a moment later she'd turn to him and murmur, “I guess you twisted my arm.”

“Listen,” he said, “I have an idea. I should have thought of it before. Let's go out to dinner, someplace nice, that new Greek place in town you liked when we took your brothers there. I'll tell you all about it.”

“I don't know, Phil. I'm kind of tired. I could throw something together here.” As she yawned and stretched her arms above her head, the sweater rose to show a strip of olive skin.

“You see? Students like that wear you out. Come on, rest for a few minutes, then fix yourself up and we'll take a little walk in town and end up at Aesop's Tables. A good new contract today. It's worth celebrating.”

Over the first glass of wine, he made his suggestion. He was determined on his plan, no matter how she reacted. She would come into the studio and make the recording, and he would
edit it, package it, and get it distributed. She wouldn't have to do another thing, no public appearances, no crowds. There was nothing to lose, he finished. The moment those words were out he was sorry he'd ended his pitch on that note. Nothing to lose meant she had no reputation to speak of, so why not give it a try? But she didn't take it badly, only tightened her lips for an instant and drank more wine.

He waited. Her face was unreadable, calm, full lips shut, her eyes slightly drowsy. She probably shouldn't drink while on the antidepressants, but he didn't want to appear to be monitoring her. If he couldn't persuade her on his own, he'd get Richard Penzer to help. She regarded Richard as some kind of god; his words were scripture, even back when he was an unknown composer. Now that he was one of the composers
du jour
, his operas and symphonies performed everywhere, the City Opera, the Philharmonic, his godliness was validated.

She was silent for so long that Philip expected her to resist, but in the end she didn't. She only sipped her wine, drummed the fingers of her left hand on the table in what looked like a series of up and down arpeggios, and said she'd think it over. “So tell me what happened in the studio. The contract.”

The food came. He ate hungrily, and told her he'd just gotten the coveted deal to do a double CD with Atlantis, an up-and-coming young quartet making their first recording. If it was successful, they'd keep coming back—it would be steady, reliable income. Actually the deal was not quite closed; the agent had promised to get in touch by the end of the week. But he was almost sure it would work out. If it didn't, and if she remembered to ask, he would invent some last-minute hitch.

Suzanne was pleased for him, as she always was. She lifted
her wine and they clinked glasses. “That's great, Phil. I know they'll be happy with whatever you do. You do a great job.”

And I can do it for you, too, he thought. But he didn't want to push things. Just take it slow. She didn't like to be rushed. Over the espresso and baklava, though, he couldn't resist. “So, have you had a chance to think it over?”

She smiled and blinked meaningfully, as if to say, How much time? A half-hour? But to his surprise, she agreed. “Okay, why not? You don't usually see CDs from people who aren't performing. But I guess it's worth a try. You're right. What's there to lose?”

Philip had been prepared to coax. He was almost disappointed that there was no call for his powers of persuasion, of figurative arm-twisting.

“All right, then. Great! Start with the ballades, and then maybe later we can do the preludes or some of the nocturnes. We'll figure it out, and you'll let me know when you're ready. You can start tomorrow. It shouldn't take long. You have them down pat already. I've heard you.”

She gave that wry smile again. She was humoring him, he could tell, and for a moment the ambiguous dynamics of their marriage puzzled him. Who was humoring whom? Who was the protector, who the protected? “You sound like you're talking about an exam,” she said.

“Well, you know what I mean, sweetheart.” He took her hand across the table. “You always know what I mean, don't you?”

“Mostly,” she said.

Before they went home they walked down to the river. There was still a trace of light in the sky. It wasn't too late, he thought.
He would do it for her. He should have done it long before. Look how easily she agreed. Once she heard the recordings she'd get as excited as he was, only he didn't dare show that excitement yet. She had that peculiar calm she'd developed over the last few years; he didn't know if it was medication or resignation or sickness, but he didn't like it. It wasn't natural to her, wasn't the lively Suzanne with the vivid, shining eyes he'd fallen in love with. What he'd seen in her from the very beginning was a simmering energy beneath the smooth lines of her face, a kind of volcano nearing eruption, or fireworks ready to spark up. He wanted to see that Suzanne again. Or re-create her, if he had to.

At home in bed, he began his usual seduction. He had to seduce her each time, but he didn't mind that. He thrived on effort. He was all effort, all action, whispering in her ear, suggestions, urgings, outrageous fantasies neither of them had any intention of acting out, used only to arouse. Pleasing her was his self-appointed task, the spur to his own desire. Suzanne, for her part, would start out languid, drowsy, abstracted as if in a caul, until she was engaged, until something seemed to click into place and then she could give herself over to want. She would spring into animation, like a doll infused with breath. The caul melted away and she would grow eager, ravenous. That Suzanne, the one who finally moaned on and on with pleasure through his efforts, he regarded as his creature. The vessel for his restless energies. It was a selfless task; he had no need to demonstrate skill and power, he craved only exertion and release. And to bring her out of her reverie and make her happy. He could create her as a sexual being, since she hadn't the will to do it herself.

He leaned over and began touching her breasts, her thighs, and when she turned to him sleepily, he murmured in her ear words he knew would stir her. “I'm going to make you famous. You'll see. The whole world will know who you are and want to hear you.” And at those words she began to move under his hands, to reach for him. “‘Suzanne, Suzanne,' they'll all say. They'll be dazzled by you, they'll . . .” Then there was no need to speak anymore. She was twisting and writhing, his fingers going deep into her; she was gasping. She grabbed his face and kissed him deeply and pulled him inside her. Then he could do with her anything he liked. She was his creature.

The phone woke them before the alarm: Suzanne's brother Gary, to tell them that their mother, Gerda, had slipped on a sticky patch on the kitchen floor and broken her hip. He was calling from the hospital, where they were taking X-rays. Suzanne was grabbing her clothes from the drawers before she even hung up. Phil couldn't let her deal with this alone, not with the way she was feeling lately. He sprang out of bed. “I'll go with you.”

“You don't have to. I'll drive in with you and you can drop me off on your way to the studio.”

“No, I'm coming.”

They spent several hours waiting for Gerda to come out of the surgery, and once they were sure she was all right, they went around the corner to a diner for sandwiches with Gary and Fred. As often happened after an emergency, relief brought on a mood of adolescent hilarity—her twin brothers, when together, acted like adolescents anyhow, Phil always thought.

By the time he got to his studio it was midafternoon. There were half a dozen messages on the machine, all needing to be
answered right away: offers of new work, the violinist from the chamber group bugging him for details about the concert schedule . . . Usually he loved the busyness, the sense of being overextended, not knowing what to do first. A manic energy propelled him, and he always got everything done. But today he was truly exhausted, what with the lack of sleep and the tense hours in the hospital.

When Kosinski telephoned, hoarse and impatient, Phil realized that in the flurry of returning his other calls, he'd forgotten to undo his switch, to remove the Korean's few bars from Kosinski's performance. When could he expect the final version? Kosinski wanted to know. Remember, he'd promised to messenger it over to the hotel around noon? Sure, sure, Phil reassured him. It's all done. I was just about to call for the messenger. It'll be right there. A half-hour at the most.

It was a pity to cut corners like that, but it couldn't be helped. He'd done such a good job, there wasn't a chance in the world anyone would notice. He mustn't do it again, he told himself. It was tempting, but far too risky.

 

 

Three weeks after Phil made his suggestion at dinner, Suzanne said she was ready. They drove into the city together. She was unusually quiet as he got her set up, and he wondered if she'd taken anything besides her antidepressants. Probably not. In the early days, when she was performing in public, she never wanted anything, not even the Valium he urged on her. She said she didn't know how it might affect her; who knows, it might make things worse, not better.

She wanted to play the first ballade before he began recording,
just to warm up, but Phil said why not just record everything? If the first take turned out to be the best and they hadn't preserved it, they'd be sorry. That was what he told everyone, and on occasion it was indeed the first take they ended up using. She could warm up with a simple Mozart sonata, or something from the English Suites, to get the feel of the instrument. All right, she said. Again, he'd been prepared to persuade, but it wasn't necessary. She was agreeable, cooperative, businesslike. He'd never seen her so composed before playing, except at home. This idea of his might just turn out to be a stroke of genius.